


The Flowers Which

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drake and Doughtie in Ireland.  Boy meets boy, boy loses boy, boy beheads boy.  The usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flowers Which

            Francis Drake was bored.  
            More than once he considered a return to marauding, and damn the consequences, but with the sudden shift of the wind, the talk of peace – peace! – between England and Spain, it was best for the famous privateer to stay out of trouble for a while.  He knew what was best to do under the circumstances, but it just wasn't his way to hide.  It wasn't long before he began to venture out of his sodding Irish bolt hole into some of the local villages, then into Dublin or Carrickfergus, looking for something – anything - worth doing, or even some company which was a little more familiar, more stimulating than these illiterate and Catholic peasants.  
            He soon drew attention to himself – and not just the way he carelessly threw his money around (after all, he had more than enough if he could keep it from being reclaimed by the Spaniards) but by his distinctive, larger-than-life mannerisms, an odd combination of intelligence and common sense, gentility and brashness.  By late 1574, most everyone in Ireland knew that "Francis Drake, the famous pirate" was on their isle, could even identify his ship, the _Falcon_, when it came into harbor.  
            So it should have been no surprise to him when one night, the barkeep of the _Bell and Anchor_ approached him.  "Mayhap you should know that someone has asked for you.  Asked a lot of questions, he did."  
            Drake did not allow his worry to reach his eyes.  "Englishman?"  
            "Aye.  A right fine gentleman – wore the livery of Essex.  He did ask if you had sought any employment for your vessel.  He said he would be back tonight, and that he would fain speak with you."  
            Drake relaxed, holding out his tankard for a refill of ale.  One of Essex's men was unlikely to bother him about his ill-gotten Spanish gold.  It sounded more probable that Drake was to be made an offer – and at this point, there wasn't much he wouldn't have done simply to add some excitement to his dull days.  
            Within the hour, Drake saw a few of the Earl's men come in.  The proprietor spoke to them, and one of them looked in Drake's direction.  Their eyes met; time seemed to stop.  "A right fine gentleman, indeed," Drake muttered as the men made their way to his table.  
            The discussion was brief.  Essex needed to recruit ships for a naval engagement – would Drake be interested?  It could potentially be quite a profitable venture.  Drake didn't mind the details – for some reason he couldn't take his eyes away from the movement of the fine gentleman's lips.  But the details didn't really matter.  He had already half-decided to join up with Essex were he asked; the appearance of the messenger – one Thomas Doughtie – had absolutely sealed the arrangement.

            The next day, Doughtie introduced Drake to Essex.  The conversation was amusing – Essex looked alternately pleased at finding such a renowned ally and discomfited at finding such a notorious one.  But Doughtie was gently persuasive – Drake barely had to say anything before Essex was convinced that the alliance would be of benefit.  It amused Drake to hear Doughtie describe his exploits on the Spanish Main in such glowing terms – pleased him in an odd way he couldn't quite name.  After the deal was struck, Drake offered to take Doughtie out for a drink: "Methinks I owe you, sir, for your elegant words on my behalf."  
            "'Twas in my lord's best interest as well as yours – and my lord's interest is my own.  If you are half as astute as reputation has you, we can well use the skills of such an able mariner," Doughtie replied, laying his hand lightly upon Drake's shoulder.  "Though I must confess to a significant amount of curiosity.  When first I heard you were in Ireland, I did desire to meet – to hear first hand of your adventures, and to see for myself if the stories were true."  
            Drake felt oddly touched, oddly embarrassed.  "Then I hope I shall not disappoint, sir.  Shall we to the tavern then?  For any story improves in the telling over a tankard of good strong ale."

            One drink turned into a dozen; one night turned into a week.  Doughtie was a good listener, and he had a way of seeing into the heart of a matter, finding wit in unexpected places, insight in others, and compassion where it was needed.  As Drake outfitted his ship for battle, he found himself marking every incident of interest, every amusing conversation, mentally recounting to himself in rehearsal of what he would say to Doughtie that evening.  Their meetings were never a disappointment; as they grew to know each other better, both men loosened their manner.  Impossibly, Doughtie seemed even more charming, even more sympathetic as the nights passed.  
            Drake had just finished some business with a merchant when he spotted Doughtie in a nearby doorway.  "Good day to thee, Thomas Doughtie," he called.  Doughtie's face lit up with surprised, spontaneous joy, and he ran across the street to embrace his friend.  Drake felt the warmth of his eyes, his arms, and suddenly it seemed as if the ground were no longer beneath them.  Doughtie took his arm and they floated a few paces down the road together, exchanging pleasantries until they parted, promising to meet again that evening.  
            Drake walked a little space before he hesitated, glancing quickly back over his shoulder.  He met Doughtie's eyes – Thomas was glancing over his shoulder to look back at him.  Drake grinned like a schoolgirl, casting his eyes towards the ground.  He had been caught out – but he had also caught out Doughtie.  He continued towards the dock, the blood pounding in his ears.           

            The first time Drake saw battle in Ireland, he ferried a shipload of troops to put down a local uprising.  He decided to go into the fray with the men – he never felt right about dropping soldiers and leaving them to fight and perhaps die whilst watching from the safety of his ship.  It didn't send the right message about what their lives were worth – or about what his courage was worth to them.  
            Essex already had troops upon the scene, but the affair was a bloody mess.  The locals were both desperate and ruthless, and they knew the terrain.  They didn't care about a fair fight.  For that matter, neither did Essex.  Drake nearly stumbled over the body of a dead Irish lass.  He shoved the part of himself that felt distaste out of his way and went onward.  
            He was ambushed.  Irishmen poured from out of nowhere – where had they been hiding?  He heard someone yell something about taking the ship.  Instantly, he fell back with the men into a defensive position.  Nevertheless, he was soon surrounded.  
            Then Essex's men saw what was happening, and came to his aid.  He turned, found himself face to face with an Irish pole axe.  Before the blade reached him, salvation interspersed itself in the form of a magnificent horseman, armor gleaming in the last light of the falling day.  The axeman tumbled to the ground, pierced by the sword of Drake's defender.  
            He didn't even need to look at the man's face.  "I owe thee my life, Thomas Doughtie," he said.  
            "Thy life is as mine, friend Francis," said Doughtie, returning to the fray.  
            The battle lasted for almost an hour longer.  Although they eventually won the day, the English had suffered terrible losses.  By the time the rebels had been defeated, Drake was tired to the bone.  He found a stump and sat upon it, not heeding the bodies, the blood-soaked ground.  
            It was almost dark.  He hadn't seen Doughtie since the rescue.  Desire to see him was gradually replaced with worry.  What if he had been hurt?  What if – Drake scarcely dared to think it – he was dead?  Drake was no stranger to such sudden losses – had not his two brothers passed upon the high seas?  
            To his amazement, Drake found himself caring more about the fate of Doughtie than he had about John and Joseph.  Shrugging off his weariness, he made his way across the battlefield, looking for any sign of the cavalry.  Then, in the distance, he spotted Doughtie's horse, crumpled on the ground.  He ran, heedless of the weight of his armor.  
            Doughtie was crouched next to the animal.  He stood at the sight of his friend.  "She was a fine beast, a right good soldier," Thomas mourned.  "More courageous than many a man I have fought beside."  
            Drake swept Thomas into his arms.  "I feared for thee, Thomas," he blurted out.  
            After a moment, Thomas pulled back to look directly at his friend.  "Didst thou?"  
            There was something in his expression – a combination of sheer ache and utter joy – that fired Drake to action.  Without thinking about the consequences – or even what it might mean to either of them – Drake pulled Thomas into a passionate kiss.  
            A startled Doughtie drew away.  Drake froze in terror.  What had he done?  Was Thomas offended?  Had he carelessly destroyed his friendship – the friendship which, at this moment, meant more to him than everything else?  
            A slight smile played upon Thomas' lips, and he said in a hushed whisper, "In English-speaking lands, 'tis best to treat such inclinations with the utmost discretion.  Walk with me, Francis."  
            The two men headed off into the fields, moving in silence until the night was still, the stars above them; the bustle of the camp, the cries of the wounded were lost in the distance.  Doughtie sat upon a hillside and motioned for Drake to join him.  He touched Drake's face lightly in a gesture of tender simplicity; then they were kissing anon, but with no hesitation and all passion.  "By my faith, Francis," Doughtie sighed, "I think of nothing save thee, morning, noon and night."  
            "Is it so?" said Drake in wonderment.  "Ah, Thomas, can it be true that thou lovest me?"  
            "Most assuredly," he replied.  
            "I did not know 'twere possible to feel such things for a man," said Drake.  "By our Lord, Thomas, I care for thee more than my own wife."  
            Doughtie lowered his eyes.  "I did not know 'twere possible to feel such things at all," he said.  "What I know of men – and of women – has been sportive, mere games compared to what is betwixt us now.  From the moment I first saw thee…"  
            "Aye.  I felt as though I could unburden my heart to thee."  Suddenly, Drake felt a stab of jealousy.  "Thou hast sport with other men?"  
            Doughtie shrugged.  "In Italy.  'Tis most common there.  But those pangs which pressed most heavily upon the flesh were but light upon the heart.  With thee, the opposite.  I would love thee above my own life, even were I never to win another kiss."  Suddenly Doughtie smiled, a wicked smile that sent fire into Drake's loins.  "But do not, dear Francis, think I shall not wish to bring this matter to a proper conclusion."  
            "For my part, I do not wish it to conclude," Drake replied.  "But we can begin – methinks a certain sharing of thy Italianate learning is a passing good place to start."

            As they shared love, they began to plan for a future.  "I will away upon the sea again," said Drake.  "As trouble has left me, my wife, Mary, calls for my return to Plymouth.  I think I would not spend overmuch time there."  
            Doughtie laughed.  "Shall I come with thee, Francis Drake?  Wouldst thou make a mariner of me?"  
            "I shall," Drake averred.  "Think on it, Thomas.  Thou shalt be my second – and as is custom, share my cabin.  Who then shall know if we share a bed alike?"  
            "Thy words describe a lover's holiday," Doughtie teased.  
            "A most profitable lover's holiday, paid by Spanish gold."  
            Doughtie nestled into his arms.  "Shall we go to the Spanish Main, then?"  
            "I had yet another idea – the great treasure ship that comes yearly to King Phillip's palace from the silver mines of the Perwe."  
            Doughtie sat upright.  "Francis!  A most ambitious plan – but how to realize it?"  
            "Simplicity itself – we go about the Straits of Magellan."  
            "Indeed – most simple," said Doughtie, dissolving into giggles.  "If it were any other man, I should think this naught but idle talk.  But thou, my dear dragon, thou dost truly plan this."  
            "Indeed, my Thomas.  And what sayest thou?  Wilt thou follow me?"  
            "Into hell itself," pledged Doughtie.  "For at thy side it is most transformed into a heavenly seeming."  
            So it came as a shock to Drake, a few short weeks later, to learn that Doughtie was leaving Ireland - alone.  "My brother has fallen foul of Lord Leicester," he said, "and I must needs make amends, if possible."  
            "I shall accompany thee," Drake offered.  
            "Nay, my heart.  Thy star is rising – mine blackens for a space.  Hold thy peace and wait for me.  'Tis certain we shall meet again, in a matter of months perhaps.  I do know the favor of these lords – it changes with a strong southern wind.  When again I am in favor, do you come to me, and we shall speak further of our Spanish adventure."

            With Doughtie gone, Drake's restless spirit again took hold.  After the massacre at Rathlin – there was only so much that even a man like such as he could ignore – he lost his taste for the Irish campaign and soon rejoined John Hawkins, trading in currants and oils.  But the life of an honest merchant bored him, and he longed again for adventure.  He also pined for his companion.  Over a year had passed, and Drake had heard nothing.  When his ship arrived in London, he decided it was well-nigh time to press both suits.  
            He made inquiries; he discovered that Doughtie had taken rooms at the InnerTemple.  Drake called there, and a servant took his message.  Waiting in the great hall, he found that his hands were shaking, and felt more fear now than at sea in the strongest gale.  Why hadn't Thomas contacted him?  Had the gentleman forgotten him over the ensuing months?  
            Suddenly, Thomas rushed at him from the stair, sweeping him into an embrace.  "Francis!  It is good to see thee."  
            Drake began to laugh, chiding himself for his fears.  Such enthusiasm was impossible to fake; the enthusiasm of the night that followed even more impossible.

            On Doughtie's advice, Drake went to see Christopher Hatton.  Apparently, Doughtie had not forgotten their plans at all, but had mentioned the idea to several of his court acquaintances.  All of London, it seemed, was on fire with the fever for world travel, perhaps inspired by the voyage of Frobisher.  Doctor Dee was a staunch ally, as was Walsingham.  It appeared that even the queen herself took an interest in Drake's proposal.  
            Elated by his success, Drake cut through the garden of the InnerTemple.  It was early autumn; the flowers which had so lately bloomed with such intoxicating beauty were already beginning to wither in the chill air.  Drake heard a voice that he recognized as Thomas and almost rushed to him before he heard a voice that answered.  "Thou dost not intend to go – not truly?"  
            "Indeed, I do, my friend.  I think there is much profit in it."  
            Drake pulled back behind a row of shrubbery, consumed by curiosity.  He wondered how Thomas behaved when he was not around.  
            "What kind of profit, Thomas?  Knavish piracy with that man Drake?"  
            "I did promise my aid in this venture, and I shall go," Doughtie said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.  
            "Thomas, dost thou not see how this appears to all with eyes?"  Drake felt a chill overtake him.  Could their affair be suspected?  
            "I care not unduly for the opinions of others when ill-founded.  The truth will surely come to light."  
            "The truth is plain.  You have become attached to this…person.  He is a common lout, a thief with pretensions to buy respectability with his stolen goods.  When you do lower yourself…"  
            "Hush!"  
            "Nay, I will speak plainly.  'Tis not seeming for a gentleman to be in the company of a cur such as he."  
            Drake's face flushed red.  
            Doughtie's gentleman friend continued.  "Thomas, well I understand how difficult the past year has been for thee.  Thy foolish brother helped not, I do know.  And I see, where others do not, that this adventure of thine is simply a way to run from the grief…"  
            "Enough, I say."  
            "…of thy wife, cold in the grave before thy marriage bed had lost its warmth.  But to rashly depart with this varlet is no way to honor her sainted soul."  
            The pair disappeared around a corner.  Drake's eyes could see no more, were not powerful enough to see into Thomas Doughtie's heart, revealing that his sole reason for the adventure was to rejoin the man for whom his love had never faltered for an instant.  Drake could see no more, but from that instant onward, he would never stop looking for betrayal.  
            Thomas Doughtie continued, not hearing Drake as he left, not hearing the sound of Drake's heart breaking.  He finally heard the echo, months later, when Drake sent him to the flyboat, refusing to see him.  It came as a shock.           


End file.
